Here, Now, Gone
by sammasterpiece
Summary: Matt Webb is left feeling lost, alone, and guilty when his best friend, Josh Ramsay, dies from a heroin overdose at the age of sixteen. What does his future look like without Josh there to guide him? AU.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I've been working on this one for a while and already have five chapters finished, I was just waiting until I really got it rolling before I posted it on here. The good news is that you guys will get faster updates on here. I plan to update every couple of days to every week. If you guys are _really_ eager to read the other four chapters, you can find them on my blog at fanfiction.**

**It's probably my favourite fic I'm writing right now. Hope you guys like it too :)**

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_**Part One: Goodbye Addict, Goodbye Friend**_

The funeral took place on a Saturday morning at the end of May.

He stood toward the back, where the crush of people hid him from view. He didn't know why he was so self-conscious, why he wished not to be seen; after all, he had as much right—perhaps more than most—to be there as anyone.

After a moment of thought, he realized he did know: he was afraid that someone would see him, and recognize him, and judge him as harshly as he was judging himself.

The black suit he was wearing was too short in the arms and legs, a little too tight around the middle, and he tugged awkwardly at the cuffs. It had been a last-minute rental, and the options had been slim; he was still small for his age, and even the small men's size had looked ridiculous on him. There had been no time to tailor it.

Not that it mattered anyway. No one would see him in his slightly too-small suit, because he planned to stay for the service, perhaps for one last goodbye, before leaving for good.

He had given the idea a lot of thought over the past week. When he was lying in his bed—where he had spent a lot of his time—with his blankets pulled up to his chin, his eyes trained blankly on the ceiling, and everything inside him aching like it was about to fall apart, it seemed like the only solution.

He _wasn't_ running away from his problems. Rather, he was escaping from everyone else he had the opportunity to hurt.

Or at least that's what he'd tell himself when the guilt came creeping in, a different kind of guilt from the one that was always pressing down on him. This was the type of guilt that told his conscience he was going to _hurt_ someone and he did his best to push it away, because he was going to hurt someone sooner or later, and it'd be less painful if he did it sooner.

There was a shuffling of feet, and he realized with a start that the service was over and he hadn't taken in a single word.

But he didn't need some preacher to tell him what to think, or what he'd miss; he knew his own best friend better than the back of his hand. He _knew_ that he had been friendly and giving and gifted; he knew that his life had been lost far too soon, before his full potential could be realized. He _knew_ that he'd spend the rest of his life missing him, like there was a hole in the sky where the sun should be.

His eyes pricked with painful tears, but none fell. He hadn't cried since that first night, when the phone had fallen from his nerveless fingers; he was too empty, too weary, to find the energy for tears.

As everyone began to move forwards, down the centre aisle, he hung back, pressing himself up against the back wall. Still no one noticed him: all their eyes were trained on the coffin dominating the front of the church, not a small teenage boy hovering at the back.

He waited until almost everyone had paid their respects and filed out of the building before slowly making his way towards the coffin. His footsteps were leaded and heavy, and his breath caught in his throat, and he wasn't ready for this confrontation, not _now_, but he forced himself to continue forward. He wasn't _that_ weak. He owed his friend at least _that _much.

Still, the sight of the polished, closed, carved wooden lid almost sent him bolting in the opposite direction. He steadied himself, and then reached out a cautious, trembling hand to touch the top of the casket. It was smooth. It didn't _feel_ like there was only a thin layer of wood separating him from the still, cold body of his best friend.

This was his chance. But he found he couldn't think of a single thing to say. Or rather, there weren't any words to describe what he wanted to say. It wouldn't be enough, anyway; it had never been enough.

A single tear carved a trail down the inside of his nose, and he raised his free hand to wipe it away.

"Hey, kid."

Slowly he turned, and saw a man standing in the aisle perhaps fifteen feet away from him.

"The ceremony's moved outside. It's time for the burial."

"Oh." The single syllable escaped him as a squeak and involuntarily he took a step back, breaking his contact with the casket. Dazed, he turned on his heel and left the church for the bright, midday sun outside.

Everyone else was already gathered around a hole in the ground. He could see his friend's parents and sisters standing near the grave, and made sure to stay out of their line of sight. He stood in the back, unobtrusively, like he had during the indoor service.

A moment later, the coffin was brought out by two men. They bore the weight between them like it was nothing, like the box was empty. For a brief moment, his heart lifted in the hopes that it _was_, that this was all just a scam, or a dream, and his best friend would come jumping out from behind a tree, laughing about how he had tricked him.

But he knew that that wouldn't happen.

The actual burial happened quickly and silently. Many wept; he wasn't one of them. He hung around after it was over, hoping to get some time alone, but the family of the deceased was still gathered in a tight knot around the grave, and he realized they would probably be there for awhile.

Instead, he cast his gaze up towards the sky, figuring he was just as likely to be heard that way.

_I'm sorry, Josh,_ he thought to himself. _I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry I didn't know you needed saving, until it was too late._

Sniffling a little bit, wiping at his eyes, he turned to leave.

"Matt, is that you?"

Josh's mother had raised her head and was looking at him with red eyes. Her gaze was questioning, and heartbroken, and, giving into the guilt that was swallowing him whole, he turned and ran.

He didn't stop until the church and the graveyard had been left far behind, and he felt as though a weight had been lifted off him and he could breathe again.


	2. Chapter 2

He stood at the bus stop by the school, and waited for the number 72 bus to come and take him home. It didn't take long, but he found the wait unbearable.

He couldn't stop shaking. It wasn't cold out—in fact, it wasn't even raining, for once; it felt as if the cold was coming from within him, from that dark and empty hole near his heart. It was that place that called to him like death, that reached for him with chilling and grasping fingers and threatened to pull him under, and that was the source of his shaking. It smelled like fear and it felt like winter, and he couldn't escape it because it was _inside_ of him, because it was part of him.

It was that part of him where Josh had once lived, and it was much bigger than he thought it would be, infinitely bigger, and he thought it was so sad how you never knew how much someone was a part of you until they weren't there any longer.

Maybe if he had realized sooner, before it was far too late, he would have been able to help; he would have seen what was right in front of his eyes instead of ignoring it, he would have seen his best friend descending into a place of darkness without a guiding light.

He remembered how angry he had been at Josh when he had started pulling away, when he had started skipping school and when he had shown up it was with lank hair and dark circles under his eyes. He remembered how he had let that separation happen, how he had allowed their band and their dreams to fall apart, because he was hurt and he was determined not to let Josh see just how hurt he was.

And now he was still hurt and he would always be hurting, and now Josh would _never_ see how hurt he was.

A strange, choking sob escaped him and he sank to the ground, his feet in the gutter and his pressed suit crumpling beneath him. He wished it would rain; he thought that rain might help put out the pain that was burning inside of him.

He heard the bus coming before he saw it, and he pulled his feet away from the edge of the sidewalk just as it pulled to a stop in front of him. Wiping at his eyes and nose with the sleeve of his jacket, he climbed aboard.

"You okay?" the bus driver asked him as he dropped a handful of change into the coin box.

What was he supposed to say to that? Keeping his head lowered, Matt shook his head, and walked quickly towards the back of the bus before the driver could ask any more questions.

_My best friend's dead and it's my fault._

By the time he got off the bus ten minutes later, a light drizzle had started, and while it felt cool on his face, it did nothing to make him feel better. He walked quickly, not to escape the rain, but because he had very little time.

The house was empty, as he had expected—as he had been counting on. He ran up the stairs to his bedroom and pulled the duffel bag he had packed the night before out from beneath his bed. Hastily he took off the tuxedo—now soiled and wet—and exchanged it for a pair of jeans and a simple t-shirt. He threw on a jacket and slung the duffel bag over his shoulder before running back downstairs and stopping hesitantly in the kitchen.

First he rummaged through the cupboard and the fridge for food to take with him, and threw that on top of the clothes in his bag; it wouldn't last long, he knew, but he'd be able to find food elsewhere. He'd be okay.

When it came to stealing his parents' change jar, the decision wasn't so easy. On the one hand, Matt didn't steal; Matt was a good kid.

But good kids didn't run away, either.

He took the jar and shoved it in his bag before he had time to feel guilty.

He thought about leaving a note, but couldn't think of anything to say; in the end, he left a piece of paper with two words scribbled across it sitting on the kitchen table:

_I'm sorry._

A couple of blocks from his house he got on another bus. He didn't know where this one was going, but it didn't really matter; it would take him somewhere. That was all he wanted.

He sat in the very back with his knees pulled up to his chest and his forehead leaning against the cool glass, watching the world through the rain-streaked window, blinking to stop the tears from coming to his eyes.

And he fell asleep like that, because it had been a long exhausting day and it got to the point where when he blinked, he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. He hadn't slept much the night before, or the night before that; he hadn't slept much at all over the past week and the whine of the bus and rain pattering off the roof and the gentle motion beneath him lulled him into the rest he so desperately needed.

Sleep was good. Sleep was less painful. Sleep was an escape.

When he awoke, it was to a hand shaking him by the shoulder and a concerned face leaning over him. To his surprise, he saw that the bus's overhead lights had come on and it was dark outside. Hours had passed while he had travelled in circles around the city.

"Son, you have to get off now. I need to get the bus back to the shop."

"Oh." Matt looked out the window, and saw that they were in the city's core, recognizable by the bright lights and tall buildings and _people_, even though it was late. "Sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"I can take you home, if you'd like, before turning in for the night."

"No, that's okay. Right here's fine."

"Are you sure?" With a single glance the bus driver took in his small stature, his disheveled hair, the duffel bag on the seat next to him.

"Yeah. This was where I wanted to end up, anyway." It wasn't really a lie, not since he hadn't really had a destination in mind.

"Alright." The bus driver looked uncertain, but let him make his way up the aisle and toward the doors. "Have a good night."

Matt waved once, and watched as the bus drove off into the night, leaving him well and truly alone on the streets of downtown Vancouver.

What was he going to do now?

Where was there for a fifteen year old boy to_ go_?

It was well past midnight, and dark out, and the air was damp, the streets were busy, and he was alone, and he couldn't help feeling a little afraid. He stood indecisively on the street corner for a moment, almost wishing that he had taken the bus driver's offer and gone back home, before swallowing his fear.

Determinedly, he turned his feet down the street and began to walk.


	3. Chapter 3

"You alright there?"

Matt groaned and blinked his eyes blearily. The brick wall he had ended up sitting against was cold and hard and uncomfortable against his back, and his entire body ached. A quick glance at the digital display of his watch told him it was two thirty in the morning; it had only been an hour since he had given up on wandering aimlessly and had stumbled to a stop against the side of a restaurant and bar.

Which, now that he was awake enough to think about it, was a _really_ stupid thing to do, and he looked up at the shadow hovering above him cautiously.

"If you're here to rob me or murder me," he said sleepily, "I'll scream until someone comes running."

The shape chuckled, and sank down on its haunches in front of Matt. In the light coming from the streetlamps Matt could see it was a boy of nineteen or twenty, who had a mop of curly hair and a kind grin plastered on his face. "Luckily for you, that's not why I'm here."

"Good," Matt said, closing his eyes again. "I'm too tired to scream, anyway."

"What are you doing sleeping against a building? You seem a little young to be wandering the streets of Vancouver at this time of night."

Matt opened an eye to glare at the other boy. "I'm not _that_ young," he said. "Not much younger than you, anyway."

"True. And if I didn't have a job to work or bills to pay, I wouldn't be out on the streets at this time, either." The boy settled next to Matt with his back against the building wall, and didn't look like he was going anywhere any time soon. "But I doubt that your reason is the same as mine, so why are _you_ here?"

Matt didn't know what to say—he didn't want to tell the truth, and he didn't want to lie—so he said nothing. But the other boy noted the duffel bag he clutched in his lap, and saw the truth anyway.

He raised his eyebrows. "You ran away?"

Still, Matt said nothing. He stared at the street straight ahead, wishing that the boy would leave him alone.

"Why?"

Silence.

"You really can't stay here, you know."

"Why not?" Matt asked, irritated into speaking.

"Because it's not safe. You're lucky I was the one who stumbled upon you—it really could have been someone looking to mug you, or hurt you." When Matt still didn't respond he added, "Where were you planning to _go_?"

Matt shrugged, his eyes still focused ahead.

"I'm serious," the boy said urgently, "you can't stay here. It's dangerous and besides, it's going to start raining again."

Matt could tell he was right; the air hung close and heavy, and smelled of moisture.

"Maybe not," he admitted grudgingly, "but I can find somewhere else to go."

"Like _where_?"

The boy sighed at his continued silence. "Look," he said, "I can't just leave you here. Why don't you come home with me? You can sleep on my couch."

Matt slanted a glance at him suspiciously. "And how do I know _you're_ not out to mug me, or hurt me?"

"You'll just have to trust me."

Matt shook his head, and the boy sighed again.

"I promise I'm not out to rape you or...whatever. And coming with me is a hell of a lot better than staying out on the streets all night by yourself."

For the first time, Matt turned his gaze to look the boy directly in the eyes and try to see what he could read there. It was hard to tell with only the dull glow of the streetlamp as light, but he thought they might have been brown. His expression was earnest and caring, and he met Matt's gaze evenly.

"If you won't come home with me, I'm staying right here with you."

"_What_?" Matt exclaimed, surprised into speech again. "You can't do that."

Now it was the other boy who shrugged. "Then come with me. It'll be a lot more comfortable for us both."

Matt took a moment to consider the offer. He had been told many times by his mother not to go anywhere with a stranger, but he had a feeling his mother would also not approve of spending the night on the streets of downtown Vancouver. The boy didn't _look_ dangerous, and it _did _look like it was going to start raining again. He could always spend the night on his couch, and then continue on his way in the morning. When the sun was up and the air was warmer and shadows didn't lurk around every corner.

"Alright," he said at last, hesitantly, "but only if you promise not to ask any questions."

The boy smiled, relief clear on his face. "Promise."

"Good. Because I don't want to talk about it."

Standing, the boy held out his hand to Matt, to help him to get to his feet. When Matt was standing as well, he didn't release his grip; instead he shook Matt's hand, once. "I'm Mike," he said.

"Matt," Matt replied.

"Nice to meet you," Mike said with a grin. "Now come with me. My car's parked over here."

Hiking his bag onto his shoulder, Matt followed Mike around the corner of the building and down a side street, until they stopped by a red car parked under a street light. Wordlessly, he got in on the passenger side and looked out the window as Mike began to drive.

For five minutes, they drove in complete silence, before Mike cleared his throat. "So," he began, "why—"

"No questions," Matt reminded him.

Mike sighed. "Fine," he said. "It's just so...quiet. Do you mind if I turn on the radio?"

Matt shrugged and turned his attention back out the window. Radio was fine with him; it meant he didn't have to talk, or pretend to take part in a conversation, or think at all.

It wasn't long before they turned into a small parking lot behind an apartment building in a quieter part of downtown. Matt followed Mike up a single set of stairs, and waited as he inserted a silver key into a lock; the door swung open and they stepped inside.

"Well," Mike said with a vague gesture at the small apartment. "We're here."

Matt set his bag down and stood uncertainly in the front hall. "It's nice," he said, feeling that he needed to say _something_. And then, feeling like what he said wasn't quite enough, he added, "Thank you."

"No problem," Mike said airily, flicking on a light and setting off down the hall, toward a small kitchen. "Did you want something to eat?"

"I'm fine." Matt's stomach was in knots from everything that had happened; he knew he wouldn't be able to eat a thing. "I'm just really tired."

Mike turned and came back towards him. "You look tired," he noted. "Like you haven't slept in days. Come on, we can get you a blanket and a pillow and get the couch ready for you."

"Why are you being so nice to me?" Matt asked, honestly wondering because he didn't think he'd done a thing to deserve it.

"You looked like you needed help," Mike said simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "And I wasn't going to just leave you to die on the streets."

Unexpectedly, tears sprung to Matt's eyes. Mike was being nice just because he was a good person, a thousand times better than Matt; Mike, who had known Matt for less than an hour, was treating him better than Matt had ever treated Josh, his best friend; and maybe if Josh had known Mike instead of him, he would still be alive.

"What's wrong?" Mike asked, concerned.

"No questions," Matt choked out past the blockage in his throat. His eyes trained on the ground, he picked up his duffel, pushed past Mike and into the living room, and threw himself down on the couch. He buried his face in the armrest and squeezed his eyes shut, as if that could solve all of his problems.

"Hey, it's alright," Mike said quietly. "I understand. Just know that if you ever do need someone to talk to, I'm here."

Matt didn't say anything, and after a moment he heard footsteps as Mike retreated. He returned a minute later to throw a blanket over Matt, before leaving again, switching off the lights as he went.

Matt was left alone in the dark, breathing shallowly into the back of the couch, eyes closed against the tears that were threatening. Shivers wracked his body and he pulled the blanket tighter around him, taking comfort in its warmth, in its detergent smell.

Behind his pain was the familiar guilt; he knew he had probably hurt Mike's feelings. He had treated someone who had been nothing but kind to him like shit, but what else could he expect from himself?

After all, didn't he already know that hurting people was what he was best at? Wasn't that why he had run away in the first place?


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I'd just like to mention that I did change my pen name from Sam Makowski to sammasterpiece. That way it matches my twitter and my tumblr, and also doesn't show up when you google my name.**

**Also another reminder that for anyone interested in this story, I have updated up to chapter 8 on my blog. The first eight chapters can be found at tagged/here_now_gone (without the brackets, obviously).**

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He woke up disoriented. Sun falling through a window was warm to the point of discomfort on his face, the couch was soft beneath him, and his stomach was growling.

For one beautiful, glorious moment he didn't know where he was, forgot all about the events of the past week; he thought that maybe he had fallen asleep on Josh's couch again, like he had done any number of times, after the two boys had stayed up most of the night playing video games and playing guitar, writing songs and planning their dreams.

He rolled over and opened his eyes, and saw a small screen black TV placed on a glass stand, pressed up against a brown wall, and the illusion was snapped.

He wasn't on Josh's couch, in Josh's house. He would never be in Josh's house again, because Josh was dead.

It felt like a hole had ripped open inside of him, like a tender scab had been unexpectedly torn off a still-bleeding wound, and he gasped as waves of something that felt very much like nausea swept over him.

How long would it be before this knowledge didn't hit him like a bucket of cold water, like a wall of fire? Would he ever get used to the idea of his best friend being dead, and it being his fault?

He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, for a long time, until the grumbling of his stomach became too painful to ignore. Then he got off the couch and padded on socked feet into the kitchen.

Mike was already there, sitting at the kitchen table with a book and a cup of coffee. "There you are," he said cheerfully. "I was starting to think you'd never wake up. Would you like some lunch?"

"Lunch?" Matt asked, confused.

"We could make you some dinner instead, if you'd prefer, but it's a little early for that."

Still a little disoriented, Matt glanced at the clock on the microwave and saw that it was two in the afternoon. "You shouldn't have let me sleep so long," he said. "I don't want to...infringe."

"We didn't get home until almost three last night," Mike reminded him. "And you looked like you could use the extra rest. Do you feel any better?"

"Not really," Matt said with a shrug. It was going to take a lot more than one good night of sleep for him to heal. "It's going to be a long time before I feel better."

Mike looked at him questioningly and he added, "I still don't want to talk about it."

"I won't make you," Mike said calmly. "Now, do you want some lunch or not?"

"Yes," Matt said, and then added, "please." He thought it couldn't hurt to at least _try_ to be a little nicer to Mike, after all that he'd already done for him.

"What would you like?"

"Oh...I don't know. Anything."

"Sandwiches?"

"Sure."

"How hungry are you?"

Matt's stomach growled, answering loudly for him, and Mike chuckled before standing and walking over to the kitchen counter, pulling open cupboard drawers, seemingly at random. "Well let's see what we have," he said cheerfully, "and then you can decide what and how much you want from there."

Matt hesitated, on the verge of getting up and helping, and then sank back into his chair, unsure of how he could.

"Hey, Mike?" he carefully asked Mike's turned back.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

Now Mike did turn to look at him, a warm smile on his face. "No problem," he said easily. "You want ham and cheese or peanut butter and jam?"

"Ham, please," Matt said. Kindly, Mike had closed the door that had briefly opened and Matt knew he could drop the subject if he wanted to; Mike wouldn't be hurt or upset if he chose not to push his carefully constructed boundaries. He would understand, in the best way he could, and it was for this reason that Matt pursued the subject. "I mean it. You've been too kind to me, especially considering the way I've treated you. There was no reason for you to be so...so compassionate, and I appreciate it."

He stopped, frustrated, feeling as if he still hadn't quite said what he wanted to say, hadn't yet expressed his gratitude in an adequate way, but maybe it would be enough.

Mike opened the fridge, pulling things out and setting them on the counter, keeping his back turned to Matt as if he knew instinctively that speaking to him directly would expose all of Matt's vulnerability.

"When I say it's not a problem," he said slowly, as if he were choosing his words with care, "I mean it. Maybe someone else would have left you huddled up against that building, but I couldn't. And maybe I don't understand what you went through, what you're going through, but it was pretty obvious that you were hurting and you needed help. You're too young to suffer through whatever you're going through alone—"

"I'm not _that_ young," Matt said, his words carrying an echo of the night before.

"Too young," Mike said firmly. "You're only, what? Thirteen, fourteen years old?"

"Fifteen," Matt said defensively, petulantly, knowing it didn't really make a difference.

Mike shrugged his shoulders. "What I'm trying to say," he said, "is that we're all too young to go through something like that, but you're younger than most. And I couldn't _not_ help you. I couldn't just leave you there, as if I'd never seen you."

Matt was silent, watching Mike lay out slices of bread and spreading butter over them, layering ham and cheese and lettuce together. He felt an unexpected warmth spreading through him, directed towards this boy who had helped him simply because he couldn't not. Slowly he stood and went to stand beside Mike, helping him put the sandwiches together.

"Well," he said softly, keeping his gaze steadily focused on the task at hand, "I don't think many people would have done what you did. And if someone had to find me on the streets, aside from the rapists and murderers, I'm glad it was you."

Now it was Mike's turn to be silent, but when Matt glanced at him out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw him smiling.

"Think this is enough to satiate your hunger?" he asked a moment later.

"Probably," Matt said, appraising the pile of sandwiches they'd produced. Chuckling, Mike carried the plate over to the table and they sat, an empty chair between them.

Neither of them felt the need to speak as they ate, something else Matt appreciated. He chewed slowly despite the hunger in his stomach, thinking.

He had done everything he could to keep his grief isolated, locked up inside him—to keep _himself_ isolated, locked away from people who could hurt him and whom he might hurt. He had thought that no one could ever possibly understand—and that was still true—and he had thought that the only way to get away from the pain of his past was to physically leave it behind—and maybe that was still true too—but—

It wasn't fair, he figured, to take so much from Mike, this stranger who had taken him off the street, and not give him anything in return. Surely he deserved at least some measure of the truth; and maybe he wouldn't understand, but maybe he wouldn't need to.

Still, he was hesitant. It felt like his story was locked up so tightly inside of him that to let it out would be to induce a flood, an earthquake. And it felt like keeping it locked up inside of him was the only way to keep Josh close to his heart, to preserve him, to prevent from forgetting him or losing him or replacing him in anyway.

_You don't have to lose him to let other people in,_ a voice whispered in the back of his mind.

He knew that was true, just as he knew that no one could ever replace Josh and everything he meant, everything he didn't know he was.

_Okay_, he told the voice in his head, the one that was gently urging him not to stop grieving, not to forget, but to move on.

"Mike?" he asked, his voice sounding fragile to his own ears, placing his half-eaten sandwich back on the plate.

"Mhm?" Mike's mouth was full of food, and he chewed and swallowed, placed down the book he'd picked up again after carefully marking his page, before turning his expectant gaze to Matt.

Matt swallowed thickly before speaking. "You can ask questions now, if you'd like."


	5. Chapter 5

**So someone pointed out to me that I accidentally uploaded chapter three twice and labelled it chapter four the second time. My bad! It should have the proper document attached now, and here's chapter five :)**

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Mike looked surprised, like that was the last thing he'd expected to hear. "It's alright," he said, "if you don't want to talk about it. I understand."

"No," Matt sighed, "you don't. And I can't expect you to. But it doesn't seem fair that I can let you do so much for me without telling you anything about who I am, or why I'm here, or what I've been through."

"I've told you, I don't mind—" Mike started.

"I do," Matt interrupted firmly. "I _can't_ let you do so much for me without giving you anything in return. But I don't have anything else to give." As usual, he was doing a bad job of explaining why this suddenly meant so much to him, how, after he'd come to his decision, it felt like everything that was trapped within him was tearing him apart, seeking for a way out.

He thought that maybe Mike understood anyway, because understanding seemed like something Mike was good at. His kind brown eyes were burning with curiosity but still he said, "If I ask you something you don't want to talk about, you don't have to. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."

"It's fine," Matt said, hoping it would be.

Mike searched his gaze for a moment before nodding slightly. He took a moment to think before asking, "Why did you run away?"

It was the simplest and the hardest question he could have asked, and Matt was a long time in answering.

"I was tired of hurting people," he replied at last, thinking that while that wasn't the entire truth it was the easiest part of it. He didn't know if he was ready to tell Mike how he had run away from ghosts, how he had run away because he was scared and guilty and lost.

Mike's next question was spoken softly, gently. "Who did you hurt?"

And that was the trigger; that was all it took for the words to flow uncontrollably, unrestrained out of Matt. He found himself telling Mike, almost unwillingly, about how his best friend and lead singer of his band had started growing distant, had started skipping school and abandoning Matt to hang out with his new friends; how he had seemed to become a completely different person and Matt hadn't done anything to stop it, or intervene, or ask him what was wrong.

He told Mike how he hadn't even known, hadn't even guessed, what _was_ wrong, until it was too late, until his best friend was found comatose on the basement floor with a bag of white powder in one hand and a joint in the other. With tears running down his face, he told Mike how Josh had never woken up again after that, how he couldn't even remember the last words they'd spoken to each other, the last conversation they'd had.

"He was so broken, so hurt, and I didn't know," he said thickly, not sure if his words were even intelligible past the sorrow that clogged his throat. "I never knew, and I didn't care, and I never tried to help. I could have _saved_ him, if only I'd tried. Instead I left him alone with no one to turn to, I left him to slowly kill himself, and I _had no idea_. He probably thought I hated him, and I never got the chance to tell him any different. I spent all this time thinking about how he'd hurt me, but really it was the other way around. I hurt _him_, and now he's _dead_, and he's never coming back, and there's nothing I can do to fix it."

The silence left behind his words was poignant and keening, and Matt found that no matter how often he wiped at his face with the sleeve of his sweater he couldn't get it to stay dry. He couldn't bring himself to raise his eyes to meet Mike's, and see what expression resided there; instead he stared at his palms, tracing the lifelines with his eyes, watching as they slowly filled with droplets of water.

"Oh, Matt," Mike said softly after an eternity had passed, his voice pained. "I'm so sorry."

Matt said nothing. It seemed that now that he had stopped talking, he wouldn't be able to start again; the blockage in his throat had grown, and he was surprised that he could breathe at all.

"It's not your fault," Mike said.

Matt only shook his head. Maybe he hadn't explained well enough. "Then whose fault is it? I was the one who—"

"Your friend—" Mike interrupted.

"Don't you dare put this on him," Matt said, sudden anger flaring, burning past the lump in his throat, raising his watery eyes from their study of his hands. "He doesn't deserve that."

"Your friend is responsible for the choices he made," Mike continued calmly, implacably, his brown eyes compassionate. "You can't—"

"That doesn't mean he deserved to die!"

"Of course not!" Mike exclaimed, his calm facade breaking. "But you can't blame yourself for the mistakes _he_ made!"

"I can blame myself for not being there to help him fix it! I'm his best friend, I'm the person he should have been able to turn to, but I wasn't even _there_. You can't say I'm not to blame for that!"

"Maybe he didn't want your help."

"He thought that dying was preferable to turning to his best friend?"

"Maybe he thought he didn't _need_ your help."

"Does it really _matter_?" Matt shouted, losing the last vestiges of control he had over himself. "_Maybe_ he didn't want or need my help, but I still wasn't there to offer it! And that's a mistake that I'll never be able to take back—I could have saved him, and I _didn't_. And now he's gone forever, and I'll have to live with that mistake for the rest of my life, regardless of whether he _wanted_ or _needed_ me to help him!"

"I—" Mike started, but Matt had already jumped to his feet, pushing his chair back with a harsh scrape across the linoleum floor.

"I _told_ you that you wouldn't understand," Matt choked out, and then he turned and ran—although there wasn't really anywhere _to_ run, and he didn't know where he could go, so he jumped into the first room that opened itself to him, and slammed the door behind him.

Breathing like he'd just run a marathon, he paused to look around the room he'd landed in.

It was obviously Mike's bedroom, and for an instant he felt bad for invading his private space, but he couldn't bring himself to leave the room. The walls were painted a light yellow and bare except for a single Queen poster; a bass guitar was propped up in the corner, near a closet. The windows were covered in white blinds, and a neatly made bed was pressed to the wall beneath them.

Feeling only a little guilty, Matt went straight to the bed and curled up into a ball under the covers. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to take deep, steadying breaths, tried to quench the guilt and sorrow that threatened to choke and suffocate him.

Maybe he slept. It was impossible to tell whether he was dreaming or remembering, half-asleep or half-awake.

He lay there, unmoving, until he felt as if he had regained some control over his world. Even then he didn't move, because Mike's bed was more comfortable than the couch he'd slept on the night before, and because getting up seemed like far too much effort.

There was a light knock on the door before it cracked open and Mike peered inside. "Are you okay?" he asked.

The immediate answer was _no_, but Matt knew that wasn't what Mike was asking, so instead he said, "I'm better, I think."

Cautiously, Mike made his way into the bedroom. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "What I said...I didn't mean for it to come out that way."

Matt sighed and buried his face in the pillow. When he spoke his words were muffled. "I know."

He could feel the bed dip as Mike sat on the end.

"I would have left you alone longer," he said after a moment's hesitation, "but I have to go to work. And I thought—"

"What time is it?"

"About five-thirty."

The news of this surprised Matt so much that he sat up straight in bed, flinging off the blankets and throwing his legs over the edge.

How had he allowed the entire day to slip him by?

"I should be going, anyway," Matt said, only the slightest tremor in his voice betraying him. "Thanks again for—"

"Wait a second," Mike said, laying a hand on his arm. "You're not going anywhere. Not with just half a sandwich in you, and not at this time of day."

"I can't just stay here!"

"Where exactly do you plan on _going_?"

Matt was silent, stubbornly keeping his eyes averted. The truth, of course, was that he didn't have a destination; he just wanted to get _away_.

"Look, I know that you can't stay here, and I know you're not ready to go home. I can't say I understand it and I can't say I agree with it, but I'll respect it. I just won't let you go without any food or a plan or a place to stay."

Matt guessed he could understand that. "Then what do you think I should do?" he whispered.

Mike breathed a sigh of relief, like this was the opening he'd been waiting for. "Come to work with me," he suggested. "You're still underage, but my boss won't mind as long as you stay away from anything alcoholic. I can get the cooks to make you some real food and you can sleep on my couch again, if you'd like. And then tomorrow we can talk. Come up with a plan."

Matt turned Mike's proposition over in his mind, thinking about it, before he finally admitted that it was a good plan. One he could live with. "Alright," he said, giving in. "But only because you offered me free food."

Grinning, Mike stood and turned to face him. "Let's go, then. I start at six."

Mike's smile was almost contagious, and Matt found his lips twitching in response. The motion felt unnatural and stiff, foreign, after so long. It wasn't a true smile—he wasn't ready for that yet—but it was a start.

And besides, he reasoned to himself as he followed Mike out of the apartment building, he was still escaping, in a way; just not as fast nor as far as before.


	6. Chapter 6

Mike worked at a pub nestled in the heart of downtown Vancouver called the Ship and Anchor. At first, the prospect of eating in a pub—a place that would still be closed to him for the next four years—had excited Matt; he found soon after walking through the front doors that it was nothing more than a restaurant with an older crowd, and he felt horribly young and out of place.

Weaving his way through the closely crowded chairs and tables that were already filling up with people, Mike led him towards a table at the back, close to the bar and the kitchen doors.

"So I can keep an eye on you," Mike said with a grin and he gestured for Matt to take a seat. "I have to go to the back to get changed and let my boss know why you're here, but I can get one of my coworkers to bring you a menu and anything else you want."

He turned and was gone before Matt could protest, not that he would have known what to say. Swallowing hard, he sank back in his seat and tried to act casual, tried to act like he didn't stick out like a sore thumb in a place like this.

Only a couple of minutes passed before a waiter approached him. Although not overly tall he was lanky, about Mike's age, and had a head of curls that weren't quite as rampant as Mike's.

"Hey, squirt," he said cheerfully, tossing a menu onto the table. "Mike says to let you know that you can have anything you want on the menu. It's on the house. Anything else I can get you?"

"Uh...just some water, please."

"Oh, I'm Ian, by the way," the waiter said, sticking out a hand. "I'm not very good at this whole serving thing—usually I work behind the bar, with Mike. But he asked me to keep an eye on you tonight."

"I don't need to have an eye kept on me!" Matt said indignantly, ignoring the hand that was proffered to him.

"Sure," Ian said with a sly wink. "And then you'll have no one to make sure you don't get drunk off of two beers. You know, if you really wanted, I could probably—"

"Water's fine," Matt said, unsure of whether to be amused or irritated by this friend of Mike's, by the fact that Mike had to send someone to keep an eye on him.

"Whatever," Ian shrugged. "I'll be back in a minute. Try to find something you feel like eating."

Opening the menu, Matt found there wasn't anything he _didn't_ feel like eating; he still hadn't had anything other than half of a ham sandwich that day and his stomach was cramping up with hunger.

"Is there a limit to what I can order?" he asked Ian when he returned with his glass of water.

"It's free, dude. I'd take that as an opportunity to order whatever the hell you want."

Still, when Matt told him what he wanted, Ian's eyes widened. "You sure you can eat all that?"

"I'm hungry," Matt said defensively.

"I can see that," Ian said, raising his eyebrows. "But hey, I'm not judging. I'm not the one who has to cook it. I'm going back to my real job—just give a shout if you need anything."

Bemused, Matt watched as he walked away, before sitting back in his chair and sipping at his water. The liquid did nothing but make the hunger pains in his stomach worse.

It seemed to take forever for his food to arrive; he was practically salivating when the doors to the kitchen swung open and two waiters—one of them was Ian—came out, carrying platters laden down with plates of food.

"Is this all for _you_?" asked the one Matt didn't recognize as he put down his load on the table: a large steak, a baked potato, and a side of vegetables, and a bowl of Caesar salad.

"I know, he doesn't seem big enough for it to all _fit_," Ian said as he placed down a plate with a hamburger and fries on it, a side of breadsticks, and a bowl of tomato soup.

"I'll manage," Matt said, wishing they would leave so he could eat his meal in peace.

"Well, if you need any help...," Ian offered over his shoulder as they walked away. Matt spared enough time to snort at their retreating backs before digging in vigorously to the pile of food in front of him.

He felt like he hadn't eaten in _years_. And while that might have been an exaggeration, he realized with a shock just _how_ long it had been since he'd had a full meal: there'd been half a sandwich earlier that afternoon, and nothing at all on the day of the funeral; and in the week before that he'd hardly eaten at all, because the news of Josh's death had hit him harder than a bus and left him broken and full of disbelief and grief, with no room left over for something as meaningless as food.

Vaguely, he wondered why that was; why now he fell so ravenously upon food that two days ago would have seemed unappetizing and unneeded. Maybe it was because his body was last succumbing to the needs that sustained it. Maybe it was because the grief was draining out of him, slowly, leaving him empty, leaving his heart and his stomach not so knotted up within him.

He decided not to think about it any longer, because the food tasted heavenly—although, in his state, a plate of old socks would have tasted good.

And he _did _finish it all, every last bite, even though by the end he felt full enough to burst. Almost instantly he was overcome with drowsiness, and he pushed his empty plates away and resisted the urge to rest his head on the table.

But it wasn't yet seven-thirty and there was hours to go before Mike's shift would be over and he had nothing to occupy himself with, and soon enough he had his elbow propped on the arm of his chair and his head resting in his hand, and despite the music and general noise in the pub, he found his eyes fluttering shut.

Some time passed before someone shook him awake by the shoulder, and he opened his eyes to see Mike standing in front of him.

"I'm on my break and I thought I'd come check on you," he said with a small smile. "You doing alright?"

"Yeah," Matt yawned, blinking sleepily.

"Anything I can get you? I have another fifteen minutes still."

"Um, actually..." Oddly enough, impossibly enough, now that the food had digested a little, Matt was still hungry. "Do you have any cake? Chocolate, preferably."

Mike laughed. "You're kidding, right? I heard about what you ate for dinner. I saw what was left of it, too—not that there was much. How do you have room for dessert after _that_?"

"There's _always _room for dessert." It was a policy Matt had always lived by.

"True enough. It's just...when I said you could eat whatever and however much you want, I wasn't really picturing you eating the restaurant into the ground."

"Sorry."

Mike chuckled and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I was just kidding. Eat what you'd like—just save me a bite."

"Cake, then," Matt said decisively. "With ice cream, please. And _maybe_ I'll leave some for you."

The piece of cake Mike delivered in front of him five minutes later was huge and decadent, chocolate sauce drizzled over chocolate icing over the chocolate brownie-like cake itself. A scoop of vanilla ice cream had been placed on top.

"Sure you have room for all that still?" Mike teased.

Matt did—he hadn't been joking when he said he always had room for dessert—and it was somewhat regretfully that he said, "Maybe not. Here, have some." Taking the fork, he cut the piece of cake in half and shoved the plate towards Mike.

"I only have five minutes..." Mike said, looking uncertain.

Matt shrugged. "Eat fast." It was pretty pathetic, he figured, if he couldn't even give Mike half a slice of cake, after all he'd done for him.

Not needing any more urging, Mike pulled out the chair across from Matt and sat down, shovelling the cake in his mouth.

"Now it seems like you're the one who hasn't had a good meal in days," Matt noted.

"That," Mike said in between bites, "and my boss would be unimpressed with me if he saw me eating the cake I made him make you, especially after what I told him about you." Finishing the last bite, he stood and pushed the plate back towards Matt.

"Wait, what did you tell him about me?"

Mike only smiled. "Break's over," he said, uninformative. "I'll be off at two. Are you sure you're good until then?"

Not really waiting for an answer, he turned with a wave to retreat behind the swinging kitchen doors.

"I'll be fine, I guess," Matt told his back, before turning his attention to the cake that sat in front of him.

It tasted, if that was possible, even more delicious than it looked.

He watched the last of the baseball game on the TV that hung in the corner above his table; after that, he watched sports highlights of the hockey game that had been played the night before. Once, he would have been fascinated in the Stanley Cup Playoffs; he had been completely immersed not that long ago. But it was hard to care about something as trivial as hockey when his best friend was dead, and soon his attention wandered.

Gradually, the pub emptied around him; it was a Sunday night, and people had work the next morning. The roar of noise slowed to a murmur, and he could actually hear the soft strains of music in the background.

He was still so tired, and the pub was dimly lit, and the music in the background almost sounded like a lullaby. When he had been younger, he used to need music to fall asleep. He had outgrown the habit, but now the sound of it—something folksy, something he thought didn't belong in a place like a pub, but then again, what did he know about pubs?—was enough to make it impossible for him to keep his eyes open.

How long had it been since he'd eaten a full meal? It been at least that long, perhaps longer, since he'd had a full night's sleep; and now, when it was late and his stomach was full and his grief seemed just a little bit more removed, it seemed like the exhaustion he'd been holding at bay caught up to him all at once.

He slept with his head pillowed on his arm, collapsed on the table, and he dreamed of Josh and his guitar, and it wasn't sad at all.

He slept deeply, with the music in the background and the music in his head carrying him away.

The next morning, he would vaguely remember Mike shaking him awake at the end of his shift, and leading him out into the cold night air; hazily, he would remember leaning his head against the glass and sleeping again to the sound of the radio; distantly, he would remember allowing Mike to take him by the arm and lead him upstairs and into the apartment and over to the couch.

And the moment he touched the couch he was falling into sleep, falling into dreams, and he wouldn't have been awake to remember Mike standing over him with a soft, sad, protective smile on his face, or Mike tossing a blanket over him and making sure it covered his feet, or Mike softly leaving the room for his own, flicking off the lights as he went.


End file.
